


Nape of the neck, Slip of the Tongue

by Teigh



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-02
Updated: 2008-07-02
Packaged: 2017-10-23 02:27:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/245276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teigh/pseuds/Teigh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As warnings went, this was particularly vague, but Ray had learned the hard way that not paying attention to even the most obscure warning would bring nothing but trouble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nape of the neck, Slip of the Tongue

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the Pedestrian Wolves 'Verse. Written for the prompt _Exhausted_

To say that Ray knew what Bob Bryar was from the first moment their lives collided would be wrong. The first time Ray saw Bob, all he registered through his tour induced exhaustion was the wide span of shoulders as the other man hunched down in concentration over a mixing board. He was just another tech guy, wearing a black hoodie and jeans, dressed like everyone else. His stockiness made him stand out a little, as did the brightness of his pale hair, but the adoption of the accepted tech uniform and his natural stillness caused the blond to slip into the background. Sure, his stillness was unusual in the chaos of the tour, but not different enough to stand out in the milling crowd. So yeah, there were small discrepancies, snags in normalcy that had Ray glancing over at the mixing board, trying to see…something, he wasn’t sure what. What he did know was the hair at the nape of his neck was prickling, a prickle that gained sharpness when Ray looked across the venue at the board. As warnings went, this was particularly vague, but Ray had learned the hard way that not paying attention to even the most obscure warning would bring nothing but trouble. The last thing they needed on this tour was more trouble. So he watched the sound tech, cataloging the characteristics that he could see across the distance between stage and board.  
   
//short blond hair, the scruff of a neglect-grown beard, glint of metal at the lip//  
   
It wasn’t much, wasn’t enough, but it helped quiet his unease.  
   
There’s an additional whisper in his mind the next morning, a murmur of unease that distracts as Ray crosses to the food tent. He’s groggy, his thoughts mired down by a blend of hangover and exhaustion – it’s been a week and half since he’s been able to get more than three restless hours of sleep- so he’s not paying attention to his surroundings as he walks towards the food tent. A warm hand on his shoulder stops him. But Ray stumbles, inertia still propelling him forward. Another hand appears at eye level, wrapping around the metal pole he’d not seen in his sleep-deprived haze. Ray’s forehead hits the hand hard enough to earn himself a knuckle dig to the temple.  
   
 “Easy.” The word is breathed in Ray’s ear.

He startles back, turns his head and finds himself staring into sharp eyes. Electric blue stares back, watching. This close, Ray can see how the sunburn on his rescuer’s nose is peeling, how the red is fading to freckles on his cheeks. For a brief instant, all Ray can smell is pine and the sharp bite of new snow. All the hair along his neck prickles – he can only imagine what his hair looks like.  
   
“Thanks. I’m not really awake…” He manages. Ray’s tongue still feels thick, sticking to the roof of his mouth, slurring his words.  
   
The blond watches him, the right corner of his mouth quirking up in amusement. “I figured.”  
   
Ray finds himself staring at the other man’s lip ring and feels heat rise on his cheeks. “Thanks for the save.” He repeats, words tumbling out past the embarrassment. “ I’m Ray Toro…”  
   
This time he’s given an actual smile. “Of My Chemical Romance. Yeah, I know. I did your sound last night. I’m Bob, Bob Bryar.” He holds out his hand and the smile widens into an easy grin.  
   
In the background, Ray hears whoops and catches the flash of bare skin as a group of local musicians run past, super soakers in hand. He grins at Bob and takes the offered hand. Callus rasps against callus, and Ray opens his mouth to ask Bob what he plays… but then he feels a familiar ghostly brush of fur against his palm. Suddenly the unease of the previous night makes sense.  
   
“Oh.” He said, taking a deep breath and inhaling the tang of ozone and musk. “Lobo.”  
   
Bob’s fingers tighten around his hand, as gold flares bright in the blue neon of his gaze. “What?!” He hisses.  
   
Ray blinks, cursing his lack of filters. He's so tired. Looking into Bob’s face, a ready denial settles onto his tongue…but there's something in that intense stare that prompts honesty instead.  
   
“I didn’t expect to find a lobo hombre on tour,” Ray says, and shakes his head, seeing the snap of red-brown curls at the edge of his vision. “It makes sense, though.”  
   
Bob still clings to his hand. Ray feels the bones of his index and middle fingers grind together and hisses at the bright burst of pain. Bob blinks, looks at their hands and steps back, putting several feet between them.  
   
Ray frowns as he realized the tension, the spark-edged unease that had sat in him over the past 24 hours has vanished. He looks at Bob, and feels the same low awareness of his presence that defined his band. Bob feels like Frank and Gee and Mikey. He spreads his hands wide, remembering the summer he’d spent earning the friendship of his neighbor’s dog, a half feral pit bull named Jasmine. He smiles again, careful to not show his teeth.  
   
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.”  
   
Ray’s not sure if it’s the gesture or the even cadence of his voice, but Bob’s shoulders slowly relax. He doesn’t answer, not with words – simply ducks his head and turns towards the food table. It’s enough for Ray. He falls into step, strides matching Bob’s without thought.


End file.
